


Slow Exchange of Hope

by StormyDaze



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Domesticity, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Idiots to Idiots in Love, M/M, Marriage of Convenience, Mpreg
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-27
Updated: 2019-09-26
Packaged: 2020-10-29 01:22:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20788241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StormyDaze/pseuds/StormyDaze
Summary: After the war, the only way Draco can escape Azkaban is if he has a suitable family member or spouse to take custody of him. Harry steps up.





	Slow Exchange of Hope

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by [StormyDaze](https://archiveofourown.org/users/StormyDaze/pseuds/StormyDaze) in the [iibb2019](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/iibb2019) collection. 

> This chapter contains a sex scene where the consent is not 100% enthusiastic for either party, and they have mixed emotions about it, so consider yourself warned if that's a thing that's going to bother you.
> 
> Title from "A Prison Gets To Be A Friend" by Emily Dickinson.

Draco barely lifted his head when he heard the cell door unlock. 

So this was it. They were finally going to take him away to Azkaban. He knew he deserved it, but he’d allowed himself one small shred of hope, a tiny flame now doused.

He squinted against the beam of light pouring in through the open door. The Ministry cell where he’d spent the last nine months was decently clean but hardly extravagant, containing just a small, lumpy bed, a toilet, and a sink. It was lit only by a dim, sourceless magical glow. He stood and shuffled to the door, waiting for an Auror to cuff him and lead him to his fate.

He was not expecting to see Granger standing in the doorway, hair looking even frizzier than usual. She had her wand drawn, but not pointed at him, which was something of a relief, considering what he’d seen her do with it in the past.

“Hurry up,” she said, looking up and down the corridor as if checking for anyone watching.

“What are you doing here?” Draco tried to summon his habitual sneer, but he mostly just sounded tired.

“Saving your skinny arse, unless you’d rather go to Azkaban,” Granger said impatiently. “Now come on!”

Well, put like that. He followed her out of the cell without looking back. “Is this an actual jailbreak, Granger?” He’d known years ago that she wasn’t as much of a goody two-shoes as everyone thought, but breaking someone out of Ministry custody was a different level from sneaking out after curfew.

She grimaced. “Not… exactly,” she said, which cleared up precisely nothing, but Draco decided he didn’t care enough to inquire further. Instead, he followed her into the lift and then through the maze of Ministry corridors. They didn’t meet anyone else along the way. Draco gathered that it was either very late or very early, although he tended to lose track of time in his cell.

“Do… do you know what happened to my parents?” He suspected, of course, but it would be nice to know for certain.

“Your father got life in Azkaban, your mother got five years,” she said, without looking at him. 

Hope, then, for his mother. She was strong. If anyone could survive Azkaban, she could.

Granger shoved open a door and pocketed her wand. Draco followed her into the room, and stopped.

Potter and Weasley stood in the center of the room, looking exhausted and uncomfortable, respectively. They were accompanied by a grey-haired witch wearing eye-searingly violet robes and a scowl on her face like she smelled something disgusting. It was almost comforting, really, like being at home.

“What’s going on?” Draco asked.

Potter, Weasley, and Granger exchanged glances. “I thought you were going to tell him,” Potter said to Granger.

“No, I said that it was your idea, so you could explain it,” Granger shot back, crossing her arms over her chest.

Potter ran a hand through that rat’s nest he called hair. “We’ve—Hermione found a way to keep you out of Azkaban,” he said.

“I didn’t think you’d actually go through with it,” Granger muttered under her breath.

“Why do I think I’m not going to like it?” Draco asked, although he knew the answer. Because nothing had gone his way since he struck up a conversation with a scrawny boy in Madame Malkin’s.

“Under certain conditions, instead of prison, the Ministry will remand a convicted criminal into the custody of a family member or spouse,” Granger explained, apparently physically incapable of not showing off something she’d researched. “The criminal must be deemed not a danger to society, and the custodian must be both magically powerful enough to subdue them if necessary and in extremely good standing with the Ministry.”

Well, that ruled out just about everyone Draco was related to. Aunt Andromeda might qualify, but he very sincerely doubted that she wanted anything to do with him. “Who, exactly, are you suggesting, Granger?”

Granger looked at Potter. Potter looked at the floor. “Me,” he said.

Draco raised an eyebrow. “Last I checked, we’re not related.” Well, all pureblood families were related somehow, but probably not closely enough for the Ministry’s standards. 

Potter’s face reddened. “We’d have to get married.”

Draco choked. For a moment, several things he wanted to say battled for priority. What managed to make it out of his mouth was, “Did you just propose to me, Potter?”

Weasley snickered. Draco wished he had a wand so he could hex him just on principle.

Potter glared although his face was still beet red. “Look, if you want to go to Azkaban with your parents, fine by me,” he said. “Or you can sign the marriage contract and get house arrest with me. Your choice.”

“Tell him the rest,” Granger prompted.

“What else could there be?” Draco asked.

Potter looked, if possible, even more mortified. Draco wished he could enjoy it, but it just gave him a sinking feeling in his stomach. “It has to be a, what did you call it?” He looked at Granger for help.

“Class B marriage license,” she told Draco. “A Class B license—”

“I know what a Class B marriage license is,” Draco snapped. He was from a rich pureblood family, he’d learned this when he was a child.

Wizards had two different types of marriage licenses. A Class A license was a traditional marriage of equals, while a Class B license included the usual negotiations that occurred when wizards and witches of vastly differing social status married. They were designed to protect the interests of the higher-status party in the case of divorce and codify the line of inheritance. Legally, they gave one partner significantly more power than the other.

“Mrs. Spritwizzle here can tell you the particulars, if you’re interested,” Potter said.

Was he interested? If the alternative was Azkaban…

The violet-robed witch, Mrs. Spritwizzle, took her cue. “By signing a Class B marriage license, you will take Mr. Potter’s name and become a member of his House. Mr. Potter will become joint owner of all your wealth, holdings, investments, and possessions, although the arrangement is not reciprocal. He will be granted power of attorney to make legal and medical decisions for you if you are unable to do so yourself. In the event of his death, his estate passes to his eldest child, or, if an heir has not been born, returns to his House, minus a yearly stipend of five thousand galleons for five years to which you will be entitled. You are also entitled to this amount in the event of divorce. Finally, you will agree to bear him an heir within a year of the date of the license, unless a Healer can testify to medical issues preventing this. Failure to comply with this clause or any other responsibility on your part will result in annulment of the marriage.”

It wasn’t anything Draco hadn’t heard before, although it was nice to refresh his memory. But… “An heir?” he asked Potter.

Potter closed his eyes. “I asked them to take that bit out, but they said it’s necessary for it to be legally binding,” he mumbled.

“Why would you do this?” For the Malfoy fortune, perhaps, although the war had reduced it to a fraction of what it once was, and Potter was rich enough. To see Draco humiliated? Perhaps Potter got off on lording that kind of power over Draco, making him do housework and such. He seemed high and mighty on the face of it, but Draco always suspected he was a bit of a pervert in private.

For the first time since Draco had walked through the door, Potter didn’t look like he wanted to sink into the floor. “Because I think you’ve been punished enough,” he said.

Fuck. Was that pity? Draco almost thought he’d rather face the dementors.

Almost.

He closed his eyes. “Fine,” he said. “If you’re sure, I’ll do it.”

After that it was just a matter of signing the paperwork. Granger and Weasley signed as witnesses, and then it was done.

“You may now kiss the bride,” Weasley muttered under his breath. Draco reached for a wand that wasn’t there to hex him again. Granger and Potter—Harry, he supposed he should try to start to think of him, especially if Draco was a Potter now too—each stood on one of Weasley’s feet. Draco wondered if they’d choreographed it.

“So, what now?” he asked.

“I take you back to your cell until your hearing,” Granger said. “It should only be a few more days. After that, you’re Harry’s problem.” She gave Harry a look that said she was still questioning the wisdom of this plan.

“Can’t wait,” Draco said, and followed her back to his cell.

*******

True to character, Granger had done her homework. The Ministry wasn’t pleased to let Draco go free, but it seemed they couldn’t deny their precious Harry Potter anything he asked for. Draco tried to channel his mother’s grace as a short, sour-faced man glared at him and recited a long list of rules for his house arrest. No wand, no leaving the specified perimeter unless Harry accompanied him somewhere, and a variety of tracking and monitoring charms were among them. There was quite a crowd gathered to watch Draco’s trial, and he sensed that a lot of them were a bit disappointed that he wasn’t going to be tossed to the Dementors.

When it was all done with, they dodged Rita Skeeter, whose pointed questions about their elopement were particularly vicious, and made it to the atrium, where Harry grabbed Draco’s arm and Disapparated.

They appeared outside a rather gloomy-looking house, made gloomier by the cold spring rain that was sprinkling down. The two-storey house wasn’t quite big enough to constitute a mansion but would certainly easily house a large family, although by the look of it, it hadn’t done so in years. The garden was overgrown, the roof was missing several shingles, and the paint was weathered and chipped. One of the upstairs windows was cracked.

“Where are we?” Draco asked.

“Welcome to Casa Potter,” Harry said with a sheepish smile. “It used to belong to my grandparents, apparently, but it’s been empty since they died before I was born. I wasn’t exactly in the position to claim any inheritances when I came of age, but after the war I certainly didn’t want to live at Grimmauld Place and it seemed a waste to find a flat when I had a perfectly good house, so.” He seemed to realize he was rambling and cut himself off. “It’s nothing fancy. I haven’t really had time to fix it up.”

It turned out that was a bit of an understatement. The kitchen was mostly clean, but all the furniture in the sitting room was covered in once-white sheets stained grey with a thick layer of dust. The bedrooms weren’t much better. 

“Hermione went and got a trunkload of your robes and stuff from Malfoy Manor,” Harry said. “If there’s anything else you want from it, I can take you there at some point. When I’m not busy at the Ministry.”

Draco scowled at the thought of Granger pawing through his family’s treasures, and then thought about going back himself to the house where he’d been basically imprisoned for the last year of the war and felt sick. He grudgingly admitted he should probably be grateful to her.

“You can pick any of the bedrooms, we just stuck the trunk in one, you don’t have to stay in this one,” Harry continued.

The other bedrooms were dustier. Someone, probably Granger again, must have Scourgified this one. “This one’s fine,” Draco said. “Where are you sleeping?”

Harry gestured to a closed door at the end of the hall. “If you need anything, just ask,” he said. He checked the time on a rather old pocket watch. “I have to go talk to Shacklebolt,” he said. “Will you be all right here until dinner?”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Believe it or not, Potter, I can survive a few hours without tripping over a throw rug and decapitating myself. If I’m feeling daring, I might even take a bath.”

“Okay,” Harry said. “I’ll just… see you later, then.” He Disapparated with a crack.

Draco threw himself face down on the bed and contemplated trying to suffocate himself in the musty sheets out of pure spite. The weight of his not-quite-freedom hung over him. He didn’t want to be here, alone in this strange old house, but he couldn’t think of anywhere he particularly did want to be. Certainly not Malfoy Manor; there were too many bad memories there for him to live there again. He doubted anyone at Hogwarts would be friendly to him. Even if he’d had a choice, there weren’t any better options for him.

After a while, it occurred to Draco that he could mope just as effectively in the bath, so he investigated the small bathroom attached to his bedroom. In the way he was coming to expect from the house, it was yellowed and aged, but clean enough. Someone (Granger again, probably) had left bottles of shampoo and body wash, as well as a small bag of other toiletries, on the counter, all in Muggle brands Draco didn’t recognize. He poured a healthy bit of the body wash into the tub and turned the taps on. Within minutes he was sinking into a tub full of hot water and foam.

It was, quite possibly, better than any orgasm Draco had ever had. The quick showers he’d had in Ministry custody were always lukewarm at best. He lay against the back of the tub and felt sorry for himself until the water soothed away the tension he’d been carrying in his shoulders for more years than he really cared to count. He took his time washing his hair and combing out all the tangles. It hung down to his collarbones now, but the wash seemed to do it good.

Skin pruny and pink, Draco drained the tub and dried himself off. Granger appeared to have grabbed robes from his wardrobe at random, but they were all neatly folded in the trunk. He pulled on a set of deep blue ones. They hung more loosely from his frame than he remembered.

After that, there wasn’t much to do but explore the house. There was a dusty sitting room, a series of dusty bedrooms, a dusty library full of dusty but potentially interesting books, and a lot of closets full of dusty junk and broken furniture. He also found what appeared to be a woman’s sewing room, complete with bolts of dusty and disintegrating fabric, a mostly empty child’s playroom with an abandoned rocking dragon in the corner, and a formal dining room with cobwebs dangling from the chandelier. 

It could, Draco thought, be quite a nice house, with a little attention. Perhaps Potter thought marrying a convicted Death Eater was the easiest way to get his house cleaned. He’d had loonier ideas.

Around noon, Draco investigated the kitchen in search of a bite of lunch. The first cabinet he found was full of old china. Another was overflowing with moth-eaten table linens. Eventually Draco turned up several packets of crisps, a half-empty tin of biscuits, most of a loaf of white bread, a pound of dried pasta, a canister of tea, and a box of raisins. The cooling spells on the icebox must have been strong to last this long, or else Harry had renewed them when he moved in, but the only things inside were half a dozen eggs, a bottle of milk, and most of a bottle of ketchup.

Draco thunked his head against the linen cupboard. How did Potter live like this?

He made himself an egg on toast and then ate the rest of the biscuits with a glass of milk, silently daring Harry to complain about it. Then he fixed himself a cup of tea (the water took ages to boil without magic, Draco was dismayed to discover), and took it up to the library.

The books weren’t arranged in any sort of order he could figure out, but he stumbled on a copy of The Tales of Beedle the Bard and felt a wave of nostalgia. His mother had read the stories to him when he was young, before he started Hogwarts. He took the book and his tea and collapsed into an armchair, which sent a puff of dust into the air, and settled down to read.

Time flew faster than he expected. He was jolted out of the book by someone calling his name, and he realized that at some point, darkness had fallen and lanterns around the library had lit themselves. He took his empty teacup downstairs to see what Harry wanted.

“Hungry?” Harry asked. “Mrs. Weasley sent roast beef sandwiches.”

“So that’s how you’ve been getting by, eating the Weasley family’s leftovers?” Draco asked. He winced a little as Harry made a face and he realized how it had sounded. “I just meant, there’s not much food in your kitchen,” he hurried to add. “I ate the rest of your biscuits.”

Harry smiled sheepishly. “I haven’t had much time to do the shopping,” he said. “There’s a Muggle town about half a mile down the road, I usually go there to buy things. You can go there if you want as well, the perimeter the Ministry set up includes the town. Just don’t, you know—”

“Slaughter all the Muggles and turn their skins into a fetching set of dress robes?” Draco suggested. Harry didn’t laugh. “If I decide to visit the town, I promise not to start any fights with the Muggles, Potter. Hand to God.”

“Yeah, well, it’s not like you haven’t got a history there,” Harry muttered. Draco took a large bite out of his sandwich to keep himself from saying anything.

Whatever uncomplimentary things he might have said about Mrs. Weasley in the past, she could absolutely cook. Draco wolfed down two of the sandwiches in relative silence as Harry did the same.

“So what do you want me to do?” he asked finally, unable to stand the silence any longer.

“Beg pardon?” Harry asked.

“While you’re off on whatever Ministry business you do all day,” Draco clarified. “What do you want me to do?”

“Whatever you want to, I suppose,” Harry said. “You could, er, well there’s not a lot to do around here, but…” He fumbled, apparently realizing he didn’t know any of Draco’s hobbies.

Exploding Snap wasn’t all that fun to play alone, and Draco was pretty sure Harry wasn’t going to leave any Dark objects around for him to tinker with. Even flying could only keep him entertained for so long, even if he could convince Harry to let him have a broom. Draco wasn’t sure if he had any other hobbies either.

“I meant,” he said, “do you want me to do the dusting and the laundry and have dinner ready for you when you get home? Perhaps I could wear a sexy French maid outfit if it would make you happy.”

Harry looked shocked. “I didn’t bring you here to keep my house, Draco. I can manage quite well enough on my own.”

“Debatable,” Draco muttered under his breath. “Then what do you want, Potter?” he asked, louder.

“I don’t want anything from you!” Harry said. He paused and took a deep breath, and continued in a more even tone of voice. “I know it’s hard for you to believe, but I’m not going to work you like a house elf or anything. You can owl order sordid romance novels and sit around reading them in your dressing gown, for all I care. Whatever you want to do.”

Draco snorted. “Spend a lot of time imagining me in my dressing gown, do you?”

“Fuck off,” Harry said, turning red. “You’re one to speak. Fantasized a lot about that French maid outfit?”

“Hey, I don’t know how you get your rocks off,” Draco said loftily.

“Do you even know how to cook, anyway?” Harry asked.

“I’ll have you know I made myself eggy toast for lunch and it wasn’t even burnt,” Draco bragged. Well, it had only been a little burnt, but he wasn’t going to tell Harry that. Or about how long it took to make tea without magic. “Can you cook?”

“I used to cook for the— for my Muggle relatives all the time,” Harry said. “Not like Mrs. Weasley, but I can make curries and shepherd’s pie and stuff.”

“Look, we’re two adult wizards,” Draco said. “Surely together we can manage to not starve to death, right? Maybe I can do the shopping, and then you can cook when you get home.”

“Sounds fair,” Harry said, looking relieved. “I’ll show you how to count Muggle money, it’s loads easier than galleons and sickles.” Draco decided to reserve judgement on that point.

Feeling rather proud of the both of them for resolving their first domestic as a married… whatever they were, Draco wished Harry goodnight while they were still on good terms and went to bed.

*******

The next morning, Draco set off for the village with a pocketful of the bits of colored paper that Harry assured him Muggles accepted as currency. He was almost tempted to think that Harry was having him on, but it did seem like a lot of effort to go to for a joke. Harry had spend half an hour showing Draco what all the notes were and pretending to charge him thirty-seven pounds for the salt shaker and then making him count change, and Draco was pretty sure he had a handle on it now.

It was sunny out, the days just starting to get warmer as spring peeked its head around the corner. The walk wasn’t a long one compared to trudging between the greenhouses and the Astronomy Tower at Hogwarts, but it had been a while since he’d done more walking than pacing back and forth in his cell at the Ministry. He kept his pace slow and focused on enjoying the nice weather and fresh air.

The main street of the Muggle village was both very similar to and very different from Diagon Alley. There were people bustling past with bags of shopping, though they were all wearing Muggle clothes instead of the rainbow of robes Draco was used to seeing. There was also the occasional automobile, one of which nearly flattened Draco before he managed to leap out of the way onto the pavement. The driver shouted something rude out the window at him as he passed, and Draco gave him a rude gesture in return. All in all, he felt he was lucky to find the shop he was looking for without getting himself killed.

Nobody had warned Draco how enormous Muggle shops were. He was pretty sure he’d never seen so much food in his life. Shelves and shelves of it, stacked higher than his head. He’d had a thought to get ingredients for shepherd’s pie, but there were at least five different types of potatoes and he wasn’t at all sure what the difference was or which type he should get. He ended up picking some at random, as well as a couple of other vegetables, only to amble over to the bakery in the hope of finding croissants for breakfast and find racks of breads labeled with words he couldn’t even pronounce. (Was “pumpernickel” even English?) At this point, something like panic was beginning to overtake him, and he fled the shop, leaving his intended purchases behind.

He meant to go back to the house, but just outside the town his terror wore off and he sank down onto the grass to sit for a moment to catch his breath. All of a sudden, his pride caught up with him. He was Draco Lucius Malfoy, pureblood wizard and heir to a Noble House, he was not going to be defeated by a mere Muggle shop! He stood up, brushed dried grass off his trousers, and marched back to the shop with his nose in the air.

The potatoes were exactly where he’d left them in the bakery. He picked up some sort of rolls and, not wanting to venture back into the terrifying produce section, grabbed a few other things that seemed likely and, mindful that he had to carry everything back, went to pay. He was so frazzled that momentarily forgot everything Harry had told him about Muggle money and judging by the look and the amount of change the shopkeeper gave him, he’d given her way too much, but he shoved the change in his pocket, took his bags, and hurried away.

By the time he made it back to the house, he was feeling significantly more cheerful. In fact, he decided the whole thing had been a roaring success. He put away the things that needed to be chilled and left the rest on the kitchen table for Harry to admire when he got home, and then made himself a cup of tea and opened one of his new packages of biscuits.

“How did the shopping go?” Harry asked when he got home that evening.

“See for yourself,” Draco said smugly, gesturing to the groceries still on the kitchen table. Harry poked through he bags.

“Draco,” he said. “What am I supposed to cook with a half dozen asparagus, three baking potatoes, one turnip, bouillon powder, instant custard, dinner rolls, five kinds of biscuits and —” he opened the icebox “—plain yogurt?”

Draco’s face flushed, but he kept his head up. “That’s not my problem, is it?”

“Well, no, I suppose that wasn’t the arrangement,” Harry agreed, his eyes sparkling with laughter.

“The dinner rolls are for breakfast,” Draco said.

“The dinner rolls are for breakfast,” Harry repeated, as if trying to highlight the absurdity of the statement.

“They were out of croissants,” Draco said. No need to tell Harry about his nervous breakdown in the bakery. Harry gave him a skeptical look anyway.

Dinner turned out to be baked potatoes with butter and pasta in a rather yogurty-tasting cream sauce tossed with bits of turnip and asparagus, with the custard for dessert. “Not half bad,” Draco said.

“Indeed,” Harry agreed. “Although perhaps next time we should make a list.”

“If you’d prefer,” Draco conceded. He had the feeling that Harry was still laughing at him, but he found the idea wasn’t as intolerable as it normally would have been. Not when he’d conquered a Muggle grocery shop and come out on top. Was there anything he couldn’t do?

Emboldened by his shopping success, Draco decided to try another task. 

There was no way around it; the house was a bit of a disaster. The dust was the biggest problem. Great clouds up it puffed up whenever Draco sat down anywhere, and he was forever sneezing and tracking filth even into the clean parts of the house. It was intolerable. Malfoys didn’t live in conditions like this. Draco decided he would clean it up. Sure, he couldn’t use magic, but if he was being honest, he’d never been great with those sorts of housekeeping spells. Besides, Muggles did this all the time. How hard could it be? 

Draco took a moment to imagine how pleased and impressed Harry would be when he got back. He knew Harry thought he was a bit useless, a spoiled rich heir who’d never had to do any work. He’d show him.

It was hard to pick a room to start with, but he eventually decided that it would be nice to have a sitting room they could actually use. The dust on the floor was so thick that Draco’s shoes made footprints when he walked through. Muggles used brooms for cleaning the floor, right?

Of course, there wasn’t a broom, cleaning or flying, in the house. With a sigh, Draco began his trek down to the town again to get a broom. The ones in the shop didn’t look like magical brooms at all, more rectangular and flat than the round heads Draco was used to seeing. There was also a terrifyingly varied array of cleaning products that Draco took one look at and hurried away from. Trust Muggles to overcomplicate a simple thing.

Sweeping was harder than it looked. The broom was unwieldy and mostly just seemed to kick dust up into the air, making Draco sneeze. Eventually, Draco got the hang of it, enough to build up a small pile. Scooping it into the pan resulted in spilling it back over the floor a time or two, until he managed that as well. He dumped the pan full of dust in the bin and went back to his sweeping. The area he’d finished was still streaked with some dust, but at least you could see that there was a floor under it. The wooden floor was dark and smooth, and Draco thought it would look quite nice once it was all polished up properly.

By the time Draco had swept half the room, he was sweating and his lower back ached from how he’d been hunched over holding the broom. He took a break to get a glass of water and a couple of biscuits, sitting up very straight at the kitchen table to stretch out his back until it uncramped.

When he ventured back into the sitting room, the clean patch of floor look surprisingly small for the amount of time he’d put into it. For a moment he was overcome with despair, before he rallied himself and set to attacking the rest of the room. He wasn’t sure how he was going to clean the antique rug by the sofa, as sweeping didn’t seem to do much for it, but he’d figure that out later.

As late afternoon sunlight turned dusky and the lights in the room turned themselves on, Draco looked around to admire his handiwork. It wasn’t perfect by any means, but the dark wooden floor was visible throughout the whole room. Draco, on the other hand, was covered in filth. He took a relaxing bath that soothed all his exhausted muscles, and met Harry in the kitchen when he returned from his Ministry work. Draco wanted to boast about how much he’d accomplished, but he thought it would be more impressive when he’d actually finished a whole room, so he kept it to himself for now.

He was surprised how sore he was when he woke up the next morning. Who knew sweeping could be such hard work? How did Muggles manage anything without magic? They’d have to spend their entire lives doing stupid things like cooking and cleaning. How sad!

With the floor clean, Draco moved on to uncovering all the furniture. He went around pulling all the sheets off, and then stared at the pile on the floor, not sure of what to do with them. In the end, he dragged them outside and left them by the back door. They’d have to be laundered at some point, probably, although Draco was at a loss as to how that was accomplished. Maybe he could wash them in the bathtub? Surely they wouldn’t fit in the sink.

When he returned to the sitting room, he found that removing the sheets had dumped a fresh layer of dust all over the floor, and he almost screamed at having yesterday’s work undone. He stormed off to the kitchen to make himself a cup of tea. The process of putting water in the kettle, setting it to boil, filling a mug with tea and then boiling water and milk and sugar and then sipping the hot beverage was somewhat soothing. A series of steps leading to a predictable outcome. At least something was working right.

When he finished his tea, he left his mug in the sink and returned to the sitting room. He fetched the broom and began the process of sweeping the floor again. He thought it went faster this time. Although the bin was becoming alarmingly full of dust, and Draco wasn’t even finished with one room. What did Muggles do with all of their rubbish? He’d probably have to swallow his pride and get Harry to Vanish it all when he got back. Still, Harry would be so impressed with all the work Draco had done that he probably wouldn’t mind.

Some of the dust from the sheets had gotten on the furniture too, although not as much as on the floor. After some thought, Draco filled a bowl from the kitchen with water and used a flannel from the bathroom to try to wipe off a sofa, but that just seemed to make the dust stick more and made the fabric soggy. He found the dry corner of the flannel worked better to brush the dust off, and cleaned off the whole sofa that way, although by the end of it the flannel was nearly black with grime. He got a handful more and set about wiping off the rest of the furniture. The coffee table and end tables cleaned easily. Lamps and vases were a bit harder, having more crevices for dust to hide, and the decorative lace doilies underneath were probably a complete loss. They were ugly, anyway. He hoped Harry wasn’t terribly attached to them. He scrubbed at the sofas and armchairs, coaxing dust out of the fabric. When he’d wiped off every piece of furniture in the room, he stepped back to look at everything.

There was another layer of dust on his floor.

Draco dropped to the ground with a scream of rage.

At that moment, Harry Apparated into the kitchen, heard Draco scream, and came running. He stopped to take in the sight of Draco, covered in dust, collapsed on the floor; the pile of filthy flannels and discarded doilies in the corner; and the forgotten bowl of water and broom leaning against the coffee table.

“What are you doing?” he asked finally.

“Cleaning,” Draco said miserably. “House elves make it look so easy.”

Potter, the traitor, snickered at him. “They do,” he admitted. “Do you need some help? I can just—” He pulled out his wand.

“Don’t you fucking dare!” Draco screamed, making Harry jump. Draco’s shoulders sagged. “I spent two days cleaning this room and if you just swan in here and Vanish all the dust, I’ll, I’ll…” To his mortification, tears began to prickle in Draco’s eyes. He flashed back to the last time that Potter had seen him cry and decided that he’d rather use that Sectrasempra spell on himself.

“All right, all right,” Harry said placatingly. “I won’t mess up your hard work. It, er, it looks really nice, Draco. I told you you didn’t have to do housework, right?”

“I wanted to,” Draco said. The “be useful,” he left off.

“Why don’t you get cleaned up while I make dinner,” Harry suggested. “And we can talk more about your exciting new hobby. Er, exchange tricks of the trade, you know.”

Draco took a deep breath. “I suppose I could share a secret or two,” he said.

Harry smiled, and God did Draco hate how it made him feel warm in his chest. He must be desperate if approval from Harry bloody Potter made him feel like this. He hurried off to his bath before he could do anything stupid like smile back.

*******

For a while, everything went more or less decently well. Harry showed Draco how to take rugs outside to beat the dust out of them, and how to mop floors to get up the last of the dust, and that some of those Muggle cleaning products were actually good for making wood furniture and floors clean and shiny. The Muggle shops weren’t as intimidating after a few trips, either, and after spending nine months in a Ministry cell, Draco enjoyed occasionally interacting with people, even if they were Muggles. Besides, he’d come to favor a particular type of biscuit they sold.

It was Granger who shattered the peace.

Well, that was unfair. She was only trying to help, Draco thought, gritting his teeth anyway. Giving people the benefit of the doubt took so much effort.

“Hermione, leave it alone!” Harry snapped. “I’ve got it taken care of!”

“Do you? Because it looks like you’re running out of time,” Granger said back, calmly but coldly.

“I—”

“Can you quiet down some? It’s fuck o’clock in the morning,” Draco grumbled, slouching into the kitchen and going over to prod at the kettle. In ten minutes, he would be embarrassed at letting Granger see him in his pajamas with his hair sticking up from sleep. For now, tea was more important.

“Sorry,” Harry said.

“It’s nine thirty,” Granger said. She was wearing Ministry robes. Harry had mentioned something over supper about her finally getting her NEWTs and a job in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures.

“Shouldn’t you be at work?” Draco asked, turning around to face them.

“Yes,” she said, still frosty. “But here I am, trying to help you two out instead.”

“With what?”

“It’s not—” Harry started to say, but Granger interrupted.

“I found out Harry hadn’t picked up the conception potion yet,” she said. She gestured to a green glass bottle on the table. “I thought that perhaps, despite years of Muggle schooling, he might have missed out on the fact that babies take nine months to gestate before they’re born.”

That woke Draco up. He did some quick maths in his head and was surprised to realize that he had indeed been here for nearly three months. And the marriage contract said he had to bear the Potter heir before a year had passed, or the marriage would be annulled. She was right. They were running out of time.

“Look, we can just—” Harry tried again.

“Thank you for reminding us,” Draco said to Granger. He tried to give her a friendly smile. By the look on her face, it didn’t work. “I’ll take care of it.”

“Directions are on the label,” she said. “I’m going to be late for a meeting with the Head of the department.” She glared at Harry again and then stormed out the door. Draco heard the crack of her Apparition from the garden.

Harry was staring determinedly at a half-eaten scone, his face red. “We don’t have to do it,” he said. “I’ve got nine months to figure something else out.”

“Yeah, how’s that coming?” Draco asked. He crossed his arms. “If you want me to go to Azkaban, you should have just let them send me in the first place. Why bother with the marriage charade?”

“I don’t want you to go to Azkaban,” Harry said.

“Well, trust me, I don’t fancy the idea of shagging you much either, but I’m not risking my freedom in a bet between you and the Ministry’s antiquated laws,” Draco said. “Look, Potter. I guarantee you that however horrible you might be at fucking, I’ve been through worse.” Harry jerked his head up, now looking guilty as well as mortified. Draco met his gaze unflinchingly. “I can handle it. And if you can’t, well, might as well owl the Aurors right now.”

“Fine,” Harry said at long last. “If that’s what you want, Draco.” 

The teakettle whistled, and Draco turned to pour himself a mug of tea. When he looked back, Harry was gone.

Draco followed the directions on the bottle. One spoonful of thick, yeasty potion with breakfast every day. It made him feel horribly nauseous, and he spent the rest of the day reading on a sofa in the library. Harry left for whatever his work was and still hadn’t returned by the time Draco gave up and went to bed. The same thing happened the next day. And the next. Clearly he was going to have to be more direct.

The next night, after supper, Draco took a hot shower and made sure to scrub all his bits particularly well. Then, wearing only a dressing gown, he slicked his fingers up with a bottle of lube and slowly opened himself up.

He took his time; he didn’t have much experience with this particular act, but he knew the theory, and he breathed through the burning stretch until he could slide three fingers in and out with ease. It wasn’t wholly unpleasant. He could understand why someone might enjoy it, under different circumstances. He wiped his hands clean on a towel.

His thighs slid against each other as he took a book and the bottle of lube into Harry’s bedroom. He wasn’t sure what he expected from the room, but… well, yeah, this was pretty much it. Bed unmade, clothing and quills and parchment strewn around everywhere. Draco rolled his eyes and straightened the sheets, and then sprawled across the bed, letting the dressing gown fall wherever it did. He set the lube on a table by the bed and opened the book.

He was dozing over the open book when the door opening startled him awake. Harry stood in the doorway, looking, as usual, like he’d been run over by a hippogriff. His face reddened when he saw Draco on the bed. Draco smirked and spread his legs, just to make Harry blush harder.

“I meant it,” he said. “If you don’t actually want to do this, send me to Azkaban now, because I can’t—” His voice broke, and that was humiliating but he plowed through regardless. “—I can’t spend nine months with that hanging over my head. I’ll go mad.”

Harry rubbed his eyes under his glasses, but he crossed the room and sat down on the edge of the bed. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I tried to find another way, but—”

Draco didn’t want to hear his apologies. He reached up, grabbed Harry behind the neck, and pulled him down into a wet, sloppy kiss. He tried not to think about how, if you’d told him a year ago that he’d be kissing Harry Potter, he’d have said he’d rather toss himself off the Astronomy Tower. He was pretty sure his face was burning with shame. A voice in his head, one that sounded a lot like his father’s, snidely asked him if he was really going to whore himself out in exchange for his freedom.

His father was in Azkaban. Draco was not. He told the voice to sod off.

Harry was not a particularly talented kisser. He couldn’t control his teeth and that wiggling thing he was doing with his tongue was decidedly not sexy, and the edge of his glasses dug into Draco’s face until Draco pulled them off and tossed them to the side. He wondered if they’d be doing this enough that it would be worth it to teach Harry to do it properly. Probably not, once he got knocked up. Unless Harry decided he might as well blow off some steam every now and then, since he had a husband hanging around and all. Draco shoved those thoughts out of his head before they could get out of hand and focused on divesting Harry of his robe. He slid his hand into Harry’s boxers and found him half-hard already and smirked to himself, because at least he could still make someone want him. He stroked Harry until he was hard and gasping against Draco’s mouth, until he fumbled for the bottle of lube beside the bed. 

“I already—” Draco said. “I mean, just. You know, go for it.” His heart raced and his stomach twisted up in knots, but his cock was hardening and he tried to focus on that feeling instead of on the anxiety that threatened to strangle him.

Harry squirted lube onto his cock, lined himself up with Draco’s hole, and began to press inside torturously slowly. It felt different from having his own fingers inside him. Harry’s cock was thicker and completely unyielding, splitting him open and filling him up and it hurt, but Draco really wished Harry would just get on with it and get it over with, so he thrust his hips down to take as much of it as he could at once. 

“Come on, Potter, you can do better than that,” he panted. 

“Draco, are you—” 

Draco grabbed Harry’s arse and began to move his hips. Harry groaned and began to move as well, taking up Draco’s pace for about a dozen thrusts before he went still and Draco felt hot come flood into him.

“Fuck,” Harry said. “Fuck, I’m sorry, I didn’t—”

Draco gave him a shove and he collapsed next to him. Draco took a deep breath, feeling sore and sticky and reluctantly aroused and a host of other things he couldn’t identify. “It’s fine,” he cut Harry off.

“Let me blow you, at least,” Harry said, bringing his hand down to Draco’s cock.

“Don’t!” he yelped before he could stop himself. Harry jerked back like he’d been burned. “It’s fine,” he said again, squeezing his eyes tight as tears threatened to leak out and make everything a hundred times worse. He rolled over, putting his back to Harry and curling up a little.

He was being stupid. This was his idea. He shouldn’t feel… whatever he was feeling. He took a few more deep breaths.

“I’m—” Harry started again.

“For fuck’s sake, Potter,” Draco said, and was relieved that he sounded like himself again. “I said it’s fine. Stop bloody apologizing.”

They laid there in silence for a moment.

“I don’t know if it would make me feel better or worse if that was your first time,” Draco said eventually, trying for a lighter tone.

“Well, er, first time that way ‘round,” Harry admitted. Draco flipped over to stare at him, shocked. Harry’s face was red, but he grinned sheepishly. Without his glasses, his gaze was soft and unfocused. His eyes really were ridiculously green.

“Well, who were you shagging, then?” he asked. Harry averted his eyes and mumbled something. “Say again?”

“Neville,” Harry said. 

Draco cackled. “Longbottom?”

“Shut up,” Harry said. “He was— well, he’s bigger than you, anyway.” 

Draco considered being offended, but he was hardly small, and it wasn’t like Potter was sporting a third leg anyway, so he let that one go. “That’s more than I needed to know about Longbottom,” he said.

“You asked,” Harry said. “Have you…”

“Not that way ‘round,” Draco parroted. “But don’t you Gryffindors have house orgies in the common room?”

“You don’t,” Harry said, sounding like he didn’t know whether or not to believe him.

“Well, after the firsties went to bed,” Draco said. “And maybe not the whole house, but a few people, you know. Everyone experiments, Potter.” He sighed and sat up.

“Where are you going?” Harry asked.

Draco raised an eyebrow. “My room?”

“Do you have to?” Harry asked.

Draco groaned and flopped back onto the bed. “Figures you’d want to cuddle,” he said, but he let Harry put an arm around him. He closed his eyes and listened as Harry’s breath slowed into sleep. 

It was fine. He’d been through worse. He could handle this.


End file.
